The Story of My Wife

by Milan Fust

  A car had been following me for some time; I'd noticed it but tried to ignore it.

  "Cab, sir?" the driver said gently, courteously, as if certain I wanted a ride. He drove slowly, staying close behind. His headlights cut through the fog and picked me out as I turned the corner; I still remember those two shafts of refracted light. But his little game got to be annoying; it lasted too long.

  What does this fellow want? I wondered, and stopped on the sidewalk. He must have gotten tired of it just then because he, too, stopped, alongside of me.

  "Cab, sir?" he again asked, and as he did, I noticed his beady little eyes. Peering inside, I also noticed a gun in his hand, and that gleamed, too, the little handgun actually sparkled.

  That's all I needed . . . But whatever he was up to, I knew I wasn't going to let him off lightly.

  "What is it you wish, sir," I asked politely (if only because I saw he was an older man). "What can I do for you?"

  Whereupon he made the mistake of getting out of the car.

  A mistake, I say, because if he remained inside, what could I do? Faced with a loaded gun, I would've done as he said. But like this I had a chance, and I knew it.

  "Some money, sir," he said, friendly like, with a touch of sadness in his eyes. Must be a novice, the poor devil. Some of them act tough but are scared stiff. A novice, for sure. But in such hands a gun can go off that much faster; I had better watch my every move.

  "Hands up," he said rather quaintly.

  "How much?" I asked.

  "All you got." He meant business, apparently.

  Now then, I've been around, I have seen plenty—dark and rundown seaports, and dives where there is so much rough stuff, so much white-faced terror, a knife, as they say, stops in mid-air. But I liked these places. Once, in Bremenhafen I had to jump in the water when a couple of nice boys gave me chase just after I'd gone ashore. But why enumerate? In Palermo one night, under an ancient bridge, I struck a fellow so hard, I heard his bones crack. And I never did find out what happened to him after that, and didn't much care, either; I simply continued on my way. In other words I hadn't had much trouble of this kind until now, I always scraped by. But this time it was different. I knew it was serious— my legs began to shake.

  God damn it, I got old. This thought crossed my mind as he relieved me of my watch, my wallet—the bastard even took my fountain pen. Then he leaned over real close, almost brushing my cheek, and reached into my shirt—on my instructions, it's true; I told him myself not to waste time fumbling about. (I usually have a pocket sewn on the inside of my shirt, and when I have a great deal of money on me, that's where I put it. And now I took just about everything I had with me, in case I needed it in Bruges—you can never tell.)

  So I told him that that's where it all was. Which meant I had nothing left. The thought made my insides shiver. Damn this crazy world, now this had to happen? I hadn't a penny to my name, I was strapped. What was I to do, run around and try to raise money? Who would give me any?

  And already I felt the blood rush to my head, and thought I'd crush his blasted revolver with my bare hand.

  There was a large open space behind me and a roadway in front; we stood at the edge of a park (somewhere in Kensington, as I found out the next day), in the gray of early morning, a time when streetlamps don't give much light but the sun is still too pale. Yet, I took in so much during these moments, I saw entire processions through the haze—workers returning from the night shift, errand boys making early deliveries, a woman running after someone, a cyclist passing right by, though heaven forbid that one of them should look at me. Could it be that none of them saw me? Maybe it was just as well. At times it's better if they torment you with their indifference. It takes your mind off your real misery.

  So I began conversing with the man, and what a laugh that was. But to stand there helplessly like a moron with your hands in the air was also pretty awful. Or did I simply want to distract him?

  "Where are you from?" I asked.

  And amazingly enough, he told me: "Shetterland."

  "And what did you do before this?" (An unusually stupid question.)

  "Shut up," he answered. Quite rightly. Though he also got me angry.

  "Hey, what do you think you're doing? Don't take my scarf, it's cold. Can't you see how flimsy my coat is?"

  But he wanted that too, he even took my cigars, and flung my iceman's pick on the grass, quite far . . . And that about wrapped it up.

  He began backing up slowly, towards the car, watching my eyes as he did.

  But that was a fatal mistake.

  For I was looking not at his eyes but at the gun, to see if it quivered in his hand. And it did, by Jove. After he took his first step it tilted a little; he was aware of it himself and tried to straighten it out immediately. But he did it too neatly, too selfconsciously, and that's when I knew I had him, that was the moment I was waiting for—in a second I was upon him. On his head, to be more precise.

  It's a unique kind of leap—French sailors call it "Old Francis"; I tried it out many times in the old days, and to my surprise it worked beautifully now, too. The trick is to fall on the other guy with the full weight of your body, as if you came crashing down from an upstairs window, in a split second, almost without bending your knees, using foot muscles only.

  Now imagine, if you will: I weigh over two hundred pounds. And if at the same time you also let out a shriek, which I happen to be very good at. . . The poor bloke got so frightened, so terror-stricken, he pulled the trigger.

  But it didn't do him any good; I sideswiped his hand in time. The rest is no longer interesting, only sad.

  With my chin I pinned his head back, and struck him just once—that's my way. And then I heard that cracking sound again, oh yes. I must have snapped his spine—he died in front of my eyes. And what makes me feel sad even now is that then I felt nothing.

  All I could think of was: I am not that old, after all. And: Haven't done that in a while. Then I bent over and noticed the familiar red ribbon: blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

  After all this I robbed the old man or rather repossessed my own belongings, then calmly walked on.

  I still didn't see anyone on that side of the street. I continued walking at a slow, leisurely pace, with the same relaxed air as before. Even more dreamily, as I recall, because my limbs felt incredibly light. Only after intense pleasures does one feel this way. I even found my handy hook, and that too the same way: without haste or bother. Still, I would've rather not have anyone else find it; I certainly didn't want the police to be in on this. At this point I wished to avoid even the appearance of a fast getaway.

  So if anything, I was proceeding slower than I should have. And stopped after about fifty feet. There he still lay, dead, and though the sun was up by now, you couldn't see much of him, only that his head hung over the curb and his car looked very forlorn.

  I continued walking and turned into sidestreets, cut through parks, took detours, the way you are supposed to after an incident like this. I also tore off my beard, of course. . . . There are many buildings in London whose gates are not locked for the night, so I walked into one of these courtyards and stuffed the beard in a drain pipe, along with the old man's handkerchief, which I had also taken from him, quite by accident, I assure you. And oh yes, my heavy ring, too, which I had worn on my pinky for twenty years—that I tossed away out of anger, because it proved to be such a perfect weapon.

  For I didn't really want to kill that old man. Not me, not that. To actually kill someone? What for?

  "So, did you live it up last night?" the house manager of the Brighton asked. "Had one too many maybe? And by the way, what do you say to the bloody Irish?" (He was just reading the morning paper; there was trouble again in Ireland.) "But what did you do with your beard?" he continued and laughed as he pushed up his spectacles to get a better look.

  I said nothing.

  He went on just the same, confessing that he was rather surprised at
me last night. For a serious-looking man like myself to put on a crazy costume like that—he hoped I didn't mind him saying it, but it was a bit out of character. And then to go as far as sticking a beard on my chin. . . .

  Next, we began to argue about the Irish question. But then, oddly enough, I started telling him a story—why I did is only now becoming clear to me . . .

  I had a little nephew who one night sat up in his bed and began to weep over the fate of a complete stranger—a poor old man who was hit by a train, his head cut off by the clattering wheels. The little boy wailed and sobbed, inconsolably.

  It turned out he was ill with fever. But the story happened to be true. He heard his parents read it out loud from the newspaper the night before.

  It seems such things can happen at a later age, too. You are wracked with pain but don't care to notice it. So I began to tell him about the Manadoans, and sure enough, in no time I was feeling miserable.

  "Are you familiar with the history of the Manadoans?" I inquired of this insensitive man. "They are the descendants of the one-time conquerors, the Portuguese, and though they are Christian and have even retained their old family names, they've become dark-skinned. Since in that climate one has to change, you can't remain what you were and survive. . . . Have you ever heard anything so silly? They've become a curly-haired people, just like the natives, except they are quite sad.

  "You may well ask, why so, why are they sad? The answer is they feel they don't belong there. But do you understand what I am getting at?" I asked him suddenly. "Can you appreciate the absurdity, the tragedy, of their situation?"

  The manager stared at me.

  "I do; I can. But what are you so angry about?" Which made me that much angrier.

  "Don't you see?" I cried. "These people, when they first went there, were strangers, conquerors, occupiers; they tried to oppress and drive out those who did belong. They persecuted the natives because they were colored. But now they are colored, too, and therefore despised." On and on I went, bitterly, furiously, about the tragedy of those distant peoples; I nearly broke into tears. But did he have any idea what this entailed, this endless cycle of hate and affront, this eternal abuse of the human heart?

  "Ah, life ... . what a deceiver," I said, striking a new chord. Which made even the manager blush a little. "Just think of the indignities we are made to endure—why it's an outrage, an abomination. And when it comes to personal hurts ..." I wanted to elaborate but stopped myself.

  A vision, clear and unmistakable, appeared before my eyes. It was Paul de Grévy, my wife's lover . . .

  So what is so unusual about that? I asked myself. For God's sake, why make such a big to do over a worthless slut?

  Having come out with that, however, I wavered, I lost heart, I dissolved.

  But now it was the manager who warmed up to the subject.

  "Over there they look down on blacks, while here people go to the Riviera to get a tan," he said, laughing. "It's a mad world, you're right." And then, to add more fuel to the fire, he began to tell me that once he saw a movie about how they capture polar bears. "They do it with nets, catch "em like fish . . ."

  But who felt like paying attention?

  "What, what is that?"

  "Why it's the same story all over again. They are taken from a place where they belong to a place where they don't. They like the ice and the cold, and then they're shipped to California. They like their freedom and they lock them in a cage. Such is life," he said, smiling, and calmed down a little. Actually, he regained his composure by repeating that stupid phrase: Such is life.

  "But what an emotional man you are," he remarked sarcastically. "I had no idea. Are you all right? Maybe you're running a fever. Or you did have one too many." And then he said one more thing which I still keep wondering about.

  "Don't tell me you're now the frog-king of Tilsit?" I really thought he was off his rocker. To this day I don't understand the question. I even asked around: was there ever such a legend in Tilsit, about a frog-king? No one seems to know.

  Could it have been fever? Very possible. After all, I had gone without sleep for three or four nights before.

  And felt groggy for days afterwards. It's true, I kept taking sleeping pills—that may have added to my giddiness, as well as the very strong pain killers, which I regularly carry with me when I travel.

  But the night of the killing I did sleep well, untroubled by dreams, until around one-thirty in the morning, when I woke with a start. The evening paper said that a cabbie had been killed and robbed, and the assailant must have fled the scene in a hurry because he left his pistol behind with one bullet missing. No more than that. Oh, and that the search for the perpetrator was on.

  Well, the perpetrator was sitting in his fourth-floor room at the Brighton, scraping bits of mastic off his face, taking a bath, giving himself a close shave ... He even had something to eat, then took out his most comfortable shirt, his traveling clothes and went out for a stroll. It was drizzling outside.

  I thought I'd just walk around a while, the fresh air might do me good. And the rain, too. I wasn't feeling ill or anything, only weak; I just wasn't my usual robust self.

  Next morning I had a sudden idea: why not call up my little miss. And as luck would have it, she answered the phone herself.

  "This time I'd really like to see you," I told her curtly, "at your place, if possible, I want very much to talk to you."

  "It'll be my pleasure," she first said, then added she'd rather come down to see me, it would be nicer that way.

  "The pleasure will be mine," I replied. "At the Brighton, then."

  "No, not there."

  "Where then, in the park again?"

  "I wouldn't mind. If it still rains I'll put on my raincoat." And she named a busy spot near a market.

  "Fine," I said, "I'll be waiting for you." And hung up.

  In the meantime I continued walking in the rain. Now you'll get what's coming to you, I fumed. For it was fairly clear that all of this was her doing. She was the one who kept arranging and manipulating everything. . . . She knew damn well Dedin was in town, that my wife didn't leave town—Madame Lagrange kept her well informed. And now she dished it all out, made me see what I got myself into for not choosing her. The little snake. That's why that letter of hers inviting me to the ball was so sweet. Fine, but just you wait and see.

  Now I'll let her have it; she'll hear a thing or two from me.

  Who does she think she is, I will say. How did she have the nerve to go so far as to poke her nose in other people's most private affairs, and so shamelessly, so cruelly, too. A young lady like her, from a good family, supposedly. So what if she disliked my wife? I wasn't interested in her reasons, whatever they may be.

  My wife was a depraved woman, yes, a loose woman, and she'll get what she deserves, but even she was more decent than her— she'd never stoop this low. . . . Yes, this was what I will tell her, I'll use these very words, and will stress how much more decent my wife was, especially in view of what had happened.

  I rehearsed all of this a few times, though there were a few details that didn't jibe, I mean the whole scenario. If she is so well informed, how come she didn't know that I was sick, for instance, or that I went away. She surely didn't know, or else why would she have invited me to the ball? If she knew I wasn't here. As I said, none of this occurred to me, though a couple of dark suspicions did. Perhaps she kept an eye on my wife, spied on her already in Paris, and here in London most certainly. Or else why would she have taken lessons from the Lagranges? And how could she have found out that Dedin was here, that I was made such a fool of . . .

  Wasn't this the reason, then, why she was so angry, why she advised me to kill him? This, at least, was nice of her, her sympathy, I mean . . . But for a young girl to go this far . . .

  But here she was, in person. And then everything fell into place.

  "It's been a long time," she said. Just like that. Her voice was calm, the look in her eyes crystal clear
.

  No, I was wrong, I said to myself. She could not be that underhanded.

  "But why didn't you come to the ball?"

  "Oh the ball . . ." she blushed, as if still regretting she couldn't make it. Why, did I go, did I really?

  "Of course I did, didn't you ask me to? How is it that you first invite me and then don't even bother to explain why you stayed away?"

  Oh there were so many reasons, she began. Family complications, her fiance's cold, and who knows what else. And since I didn't respond to her letter, either . . . anyway, she did find out eventually that I wasn't home but had gone to Belgium . . .

  "That's quite correct, you are certainly well informed." At that point I thought I might as well tell her everything—that I got back earlier than expected, and went straight to the party without even going home first.

  "Why should I have?" I explained. "My wife wasn't home anyway. We agreed she'd come home the next day; because she left town, too, accompanied Madame Legrange to the coast to see her son. But don't you know about that?" This last question made the little miss blush, finally.

  I'll give you a run for your money, don't you worry, I thought.

  "Too bad you didn't come, though," I continued, "it was quite, quite interesting. The costumes were terrific, first class, each and every one."

  "What were you dressed as?"

  I told her all about my iceman costume, and she seemed to like the idea very much.

  "How brilliant," she beamed. And then, with a hint of intimacy and tenderness: "I really am sorry I didn't see you." (We spoke French on that crowded street corner.)

  "And there were many interesting costumes, you say?" she asked wistfully.

  "Were there ever? And the company! Fascinating people, all of them. A butcher, even . . . But he's not the one I should start with. Listen to this: